


Smutember Day 28: Dom/sub

by WitchOfTheWestCountry



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Bondage, Edging, F/M, Femdom, Pegging, Sexual Harassment, Unwilling femdom, wager
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 11:42:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12210606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WitchOfTheWestCountry/pseuds/WitchOfTheWestCountry
Summary: That asshole Jeremy Blaire has got his eye on a female employee, but when he gives her an ultimatum, she returns with one of her own.





	Smutember Day 28: Dom/sub

**Author's Note:**

> Day 28 of Tumblr's Smutember event.
> 
> I really enjoyed this. Jeremy is a surprisingly fun character to write.

She was a little slut underneath that prim exterior - he was sure of it. Nobody could be that uptight 24/7.

Jeremy sucked on the end of his pen as he watched the lab technician work. She shifted uncomfortably, aware of his gaze on her, but Jeremy Blaire didn't give a shit. He was Executive Vice President of Global Development, the head of Mount Massive Asylum, and if he wanted to eye-fuck an underling, he would. What was she going to do, report him? He probably earned more in a week than she did the entire year.

There were precious few female employees in this part of the asylum, and Jeremy had slipped the guy in charge of hiring and firing a substantial bonus on the condition that he only employed the hot ones, and this one certainly fit the bill.

He’d fucked the others already. Of course he had. They knew which side their bread was buttered.

Miss Prissy Britches here apparently didn't. He’d tried charm, usually a dead cert, but she seemed immune to it. Maybe she was a dyke?

No matter. He’d get her in the end.

Normally, he wouldn’t get so hot under the collar, but he liked a challenge. Plus, he’d bet Rick $10 he'd fuck her by the end of the month, and he wasn't about to lose that bet.

She glared at him with barely disguised fury over the rims of her librarian glasses. He grinned at her around the end of his pen, watching her face flush. She was pissed. Good. That made it even more fun.

 

Jeremy discreetly squirted a jet of Binaca FASTblast into his throat and straightened his collar. He'd snorted a quick line of coke in the executive bathroom and felt ready for anything.

His prey was getting ready to leave, pulling her purse from her locker, and he positioned himself silently behind her locker door, leaning against the wall with his elbow high in his most casual pose, so that when she shut her locker she saw him.

She flinched satisfyingly, taking a step away from him, and he oozed forward to close the gap again, turning on the full power of his smile.

“Leaving so soon?” he asked.

She stared at him, her mouth puckering into a little moue of distaste.

“It's the end of the shift,” she pointed out.

“Maybe so, but I wanted to talk to you,” said Jeremy. “That was some good work you did today.”

“Really?” she looked doubtful, but had relaxed slightly.

Jeremy suppressed a smirk. Bitches loved compliments. Softened them up no end.

“Yeah. Don't think I didn't notice! I'm fact, I think you have a real future in the Murkoff Corporation. Maybe with more responsibilities...”

He let the suggestion hang, piquing her curiosity. Promotion, baby. She looked interested now, you betcha. Money, money, money. Bitches loved money too, in his experience.

“You think so?”

Her eyes were wide now, all but glowing, no doubt thinking of all the tampons and diamonds she could buy with a pay raise.

“I honestly do,” he lied. “I tell you what….” He glanced down at her name tag, perched cheekily above her left breast.

“Op...Opay…?”

“Ophelia,” she told him, her expression flickering into annoyance again.

“Ophelia. Nice name. Anyway, Ophelia, why don't you come for a drink with me and we can discuss this further? Maybe have dinner?”

Her face closed off, snapping shut with a prudish finality, and she turned away from him.

“I'm afraid not. I have plans,” she said.

“Plans, huh?”

_ Probably feeding her cat and sewing up her pussy,  _ he thought with a dull stab of anger.

“Well, okay. Some other time, maybe….”

He watched her leave, his confidence dipping momentarily before swooping back up again. He set his mouth in a grim smile.

“Very well, Miss Oh-Feel-Ya,” he muttered, sniggering to himself at the pun. “Let's see how you feel about me when your job is on the line…”

 

He tackled her again the next day, leaning over her as she worked, forcing his way into her personal space just enough so that it was uncomfortable.

She ignored him, peering at the gobbledygook on her monitor, pretending to be engrossed.

Well, if she could pretend, so could he.

He made appreciative noises, nodding as he stared at the numbers and symbols on the screen.

“Yeah….good…” he mused. “I told you, you have potential.”

“This isn't my work,” she said curtly. “It’s Waylon’s.”

“Uh-huh, great,” he replied, brushing over her objection. “Don’t know who that is, but great. Anyhoo….Have you thought some more about what we talked about last night?”

Ophelia’s jaw tightened as though she were gritting her teeth.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” she said. “I came here to work, not to socialise, and I make it a rule not to fraternise with my colleagues.”

“Oh, honey - I’m not a colleague. I’m your boss! And it really is in your best interests to keep me sweet, if you know what I mean….”

“Please, Mr Blaire! Let me get on with my job.”

Jeremy was tired of playing. This bitch thought she was all that and a bag of potato chips, but he was a busy man and didn’t have time for games.

“Well how about you look at it like this,” he began. “If you don’t start being nicer to me - more, uh, amenable, shall we say - you won’t have a job to get on with.”

She turned her head to look at him.

“Are you threatening me, Mr Blaire?”

He smiled, his megawatt smile, capable of thawing any ice maiden.

“I don’t make threats, Oh-Feel-Ya - I make promises. Oh, don’t look at me like that! Chill out a little. Have some fun. I’m a nice guy once you get to know me.”

She snorted, turning away from him again, stabbing at the keyboard in front of her.

“I very much doubt that,” she muttered.

He watched her type for a while. She was trying to convey frosty reserve, but he had her on the ropes. Her hands were shaking, and she looked near tears.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “You’re thinking you’d like to report me. That’s fine. But who are you going to report me to? I’m the head honcho here - the big cheese. I’m pretty much as high as you can get. I’m the golden boy of the Murkoff Corporation. You wouldn’t stand a chance. And if you make waves here, I can guarantee you won’t be able to find another job in this business anywhere else. It would ruin you. So. Bearing that in mind: How about dinner later?”

He waited. She looked defeated, her head slumping on her neck, the tears just spilling over her eyelashes. They were tears of anger, of frustration, he was sure, but he was secure in his victory now, and the knowledge gave him the beginnings of a hard-on.

If there was anything he loved in this world more than money, power, and snorting coke from a hooker’s tits, it was breaking people.

“Can I..can I maybe think about it?” she asked in a small voice.

“Sure!” he said generously, patting her on the shoulder. “Take all the time in the world. And by that I mean: Till the end of your shift today.”

He stood, adjusting his pants at the crotch. He had her. This was going to be good.

 

He celebrated his upcoming victory with a shot of the scotch he kept in his desk, calling across the hall to tell Rick that he’d better be ready to pay up.

The rest of the day crawled by, and he took a long lunch on company expenses to speed it up.

Ophelia knocked on the door to his office at the end of shift.

“Come in!”

She entered. She’d shed her labcoat and was dressed in street clothes, and for a moment he felt a stab of apprehension. Surely she wasn’t here to hand in her notice?

“How can I help you, Oh-fee?” he asked chummily.

She winced at the shortening of her name but didn’t comment on it.

“I have a proposition for you, Mr Blaire,” she said uncertainly.

“Please - under the circumstances I think you can call me Jeremy. Not Jer, though. Only my close buddies can call me that.”

He felt a surge of relief at her demeanour, and it made him magnanimous. He sat back in his chair, waving her towards the seat opposite his desk.

She ignored the gesture, choosing to remain standing, her hands wringing together.

“What’s your proposition?” he asked.

“Are you a betting man, Mr Blaire?”

For a moment he was thrown, wondering if she knew about the bet with Trager, but then he relaxed. Even if she did, it wouldn’t change anything.

“Maybe I am,” he answered. “Why?”

She took a deep breath.

“Because I’d like to make a bet with you.”

He leaned forward in his seat.

“This sounds interesting. Go on…”

She raised her head, meeting his gaze squarely.

“Alright. The deal is this: If you can last an hour with me without cumming, you win, and you can do whatever you like with me, for however long you want.”

“Hmm. Sounds intriguing. And if I lose?”

He guessed she would want him to leave her alone, but her answer surprised him.

“I get to fuck you. Up the ass. With a strap-on.”

He snorted laughter, positive she couldn't be serious, but she lifted her chin defiantly.

“Really? You wanna go there? Jesus!” he laughed.

He threw up his hands.

“Okay. You got me. That sounds like a plan. But an hour’s too long. Make me an offer.”

She considered.

“45 minutes?” she suggested.

He shook his head.

“Half an hour. Take it or leave it.”

She sighed.

“Very well. If you insist.”

Jeremy drummed his hands on the desk briskly.

“Great! So where are we going to do it? I know a nice hotel….”

“No. We do it here. In this building. Tomorrow,” she said. “After I’ve finished work. My rules. And I get access to this office in the morning to prepare.”

Jeremy smiled.

“You strike a hard bargain, but sure, whatever you say, Ophelia. And just FYI, if I win -  _ when  _ I win - I’m fucking you up the ass for sure.”

 

The plan was simple: Get to work; knock back scotch throughout the day; jerk off a few times; reap the rewards. Like taking candy from a baby.

He wasn’t surprised to find Ophelia in his office when he got to work, as he’d tipped off security that they were allowed to let her in, but he’d expected to find the place a little more...romantic. Instead, she sat at his desk, in his chair, godammit, a large bag on her lap and a businesslike look on her face.

“You’re early,” he observed.

“Yes,” she said. “I had to make sure you weren’t going to cheat.”

She held up her bag with the mouth open, extending it so he could see the contents.

His scotch was in there, for fuck’s sake, and his coke. And his pills! There were some downers in there that were guaranteed to keep his dick limp.

“Hey!” he objected.

“My rules, we said,” sniffed Ophelia. “I know you’re a slippery customer.”

“Well, shit. Okay, Ophelia, you may have won the battle, but that doesn’t mean you’ve won the war. I still have a few tricks up my sleeve….”

“Ah, yes. About that…”

She rifled through her bag.

“If you wouldn’t mind pulling your pants down, Mr Blaire…”

For once in his life, Jeremy Blaire was lost for words.

“Wh- How- Are we starting already?” he asked.

“No. But I have to protect my interests.”

She was holding something up: A weird looking contraption made of metal bands.

“What the fuck is that?”

“It’s a cock cage. Used in female led relationships primarily, to ensure celibacy on the man’s part. It’ll stop you getting hard throughout the day, and of course it will stop you from masturbating. Don’t worry, nobody will know you’re wearing it, and you can still piss with it on.”

Completely thrown, Jeremy found himself undoing his pants without thinking. She was so...brisk. So in control.

Feeling self-conscious for the first time in his adult life, he opened his zip and let his suit pants drop to the floor.

“And your underwear,” ordered Ophelia, fiddling with the cage, taking it apart.

He swallowed hard and eased his shorts down. Little Jeremy was shy all of a sudden, and looked very small down there, shrivelling up inside himself in his thatch of pubic hair, curling against his thigh.

Ophelia eyed it.

“Hmmph,” she said, and walked around the desk.

She got down on her knees, and that made his dick lift its head. Ignoring his arousal, Ophelia quickly began to fit the cage onto his cock, sliding it into the small space, squeezing his balls through the steel circle so it lay snugly behind them. 

Her hands were cold.

Producing a small padlock, she clipped it onto a ring just above his cock and snapped it shut.

She showed him the key, on a chain around her neck.

“There. That will make sure you don’t try and ease the pressure before the day is out,” she said, getting to her feet.

Jeremy stared down at the metal enclosure, fascinated. He poked it with the end of his finger. Little Jeremy looked uncomfortable, and his heart went out to the poor thing.

“Jesus, you’re fucked up,” he muttered, pulling up his underwear.

His equipment felt heavy, sagging in the hammock of his shorts, but he tried to appear confident as he adjusted his pants and refastened the zip.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you later, Mr Blaire. I have to say, I didn’t think I’d be looking forward to it quite so much,” said Ophelia.

“Yeah, well, I look forward to….fucking your ass,” he retorted lamely, the cage he wore suddenly seeming to stifle his wit as well as his cock.

Ophelia laughed, and left him to his own devices.

 

Of course he tried to take it off.

He tried to jimmy the padlock with paperclips, tried to pull it apart with his bare hands.

He was fairly certain there would be some equipment in the labs that would make short work of it, but that would mean somebody finding out, and that wouldn’t do at all.

It had a strange effect on him, he discovered. The weight of the thing, the constant pressure and presence, made him very aware of his cock at all times, and he struggled to keep his mind on his work.

It made him horny, too, merely for the fact that he knew he couldn’t just take himself off to the bathroom and rub one out when he felt like it.

Damn that bitch. She was smarter than he’d thought.

It made him all the more determined to win.

By lunchtime he was in a frenzy, unable to keep his mind on his work. He was uptight and terse, snapping at his employees, seeing pussies in the centres of the flowers in his office, titties in the bubbles of his coffee.

He’d intended to take another long lunch, mostly liquid, but when the time came there was a breach in the security systems that necessitated a mini-lockdown, keeping him on-site the entire time. It was computer-generated, he was told - a glitch in the programming, and he had a sneaking suspicion it was down to Miss Ophelia.

Rick was annoyingly jovial about it, joining him in his office to shoot the shit, and his constant, upbeat chatter made Jeremy feel like he was losing his mind.

“What's up, buddy?” his colleague asked eventually. “You seem a little on edge.”

“Nothing,” said Jeremy edgily, poking his cruddy hospital-supplied lunch around the plate. “I swear the food in this place gets worse all the time. If this calamari isn't frozen I'll eat my own asshole.”

Rick laughed good-naturedly, unphased.

“You should do that, sport. Would probably taste better….”

In the afternoon, Jeremy locked himself in the bathroom, mourning the loss of his coke supply. He needed a hit to get him through the day, and his frustration was reaching a peak.

His dick felt itchy and hot, and he pulled ridiculous contortions in an attempt to get it under the faucet and run cold water over it.

Little Jeremy looked sad, bulging against its restraints.

“Don't worry, fella,” he told it. “You'll get yours later.”

The hours crawled by. Jeremy shut his office door, refusing to let anyone in, and plotted his revenge.

He planned to humiliate that bitch for what she'd done to him, and by the rules of her game it would be open season.

He’d do her in his office, he decided, the door open so anyone passing by could look in and see. Jeremy never wore a tie -  just one of the perks of being the Big Man - but for her he'd make the effort. He'd tie it round her wrists, he thought. No, even better, round her throat for a session of carefully controlled choking. Bend her naked over his desk and take his belt to her ass, tenderise it ready for the introduction of his dick. He debated on whether he'd use lube, but decided that he would. He wasn't a complete monster.

He'd make her apply it. Grease him up good with her pretty little mouth, then grease her own asshole squatting on his desk while he watched. Maybe he'd film it too. Then back over his desk, for a hot and heavy session of butt-fucking, reaming her out till she couldn't walk straight. He'd put a flower up her ass when he'd finished, the brightest most luxuriant bloom he could find that would stay clutched between her asscheeks for the remainder of her day, a reminder of who she was messing with.

And then the fun would really begin….

Jeremy squirmed in his seat, his dick straining at its cage. He was aware that such thoughts weren't helping him at all, but goddam it felt good to debase her, even if it was only in his mind.

 

Ophelia appeared in his office at the end of her shift, entering without knocking - an infraction that earned her another 10 minutes of cornholing in his mental shitlist, probably with some ass-to-mouth for good measure.

He tried not to let on that he was going out of his mind, but her eyes were like airport security, x-raying the grubby luggage of his mind and locating the hollow dildo stuffed with heroin.

She smiled at him, an infuriatingly smug grin that made him want to slap her. Bitch. The way she was conducting herself, she'd be lucky if he didn't let Rick join in on the action. A good, old-fashioned spitroasting between pals.

“Are you ready, Mr Blaire?” she asked.

She was wearing one of the standard issue blue coveralls, its hood pulled over her hair, but even that unglamorous garment couldn't hide the suggestion of her curves.

“Yeah, I'm ready,” he said sourly. “Take your clothes off and we'll fuck.”

She shook her head.

“Not here,” she said. “I was thinking of somewhere more secure.”

He frowned.

“But you said - “

“I said in this building, not this room. Come with me, Jeremy. I've prepared somewhere for us to conduct our business.”

He followed her, painfully aware of the curious glances of the guards they passed. She was taking him to a closed off wing of the hospital, somewhere he seldom ventured, and the stench of old shit and blood barely concealed by industrial strength disinfectant made his throat close up.

He hadn't imagined a place like this for his challenge. It was dank and depressing, the walls seeming to have absorbed the sweat and despair of past inmates.

He wrinkled his nose in disgust as they stood at the open doorway to one of the cells.

It was clean enough, scrubbed down and swept out, but the bed was rusty and decrepit, the sheets on in covered in the ghosts of ancient stains.

It still had its restraints, too - not shackles but hospital cuffs, secured by Velcro and capable of holding down the most violent patient.

He eyed them nervously.

“Well, go in Jeremy. Remove all your clothes and lie in the bed, then we can begin.”

He wanted to back out, but his pride wouldn't let him. A cancelled bet was never off, it was always a loss, and Jeremy hated to lose.

Feeling resentful, he entered the cell.

There was a chair by the bed, brought in from elsewhere. The patients weren't allowed chairs. Or tables, at that. And there was a table too, a selection of ominous items arranged on its surface: A digital kitchen timer; a tub of lube; a harness fitted with a dildo.

The dildo gave him a nasty, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was a big one: Black, with realistic veins and wrinkles even if it's proportions were unrealistic.

He indicated it nervously.

“Hey….”

“That? Oh I won't be using that for the challenge. That's just for afterwards, when I win.”

“ _ If  _ you win,” corrected Jeremy, taking off his jacket.

He arranged it fussily over the back of the chair, unable to take his eyes off the monstrous rubber cock. It brought home to him just how much he had to lose. If he failed to stave off his natural instincts, that thing would be stuck up his ass, the force of a furious woman scorned behind it.

He shuddered as he unbuttoned his shirt. No way. No fucking way. He would win. Jeremy Blaire always won. He would win and he would make her pay.

Feeling more confident he turned towards Ophelia as he unbuttoned his shirt.

He worked out at the gym regularly, and kept himself well groomed, and the sight of his well-muscled pecs was sure to make her quiver.

She appeared unimpressed, leaning in the doorway as he undressed.

His polished shoes went under the chair, his socks tucked carefully inside them. His pants were next, folded and neatly draped over the back. He glanced at her.

She said nothing, but one eyebrow raised slightly.

Jeremy sighed and stripped off his Calvins, treating her to a glimpse of his fine, trim ass as he put them on the seat.

“I'm done,” he said unnecessarily.

“I can see,” she observed. “Lie down.”

He did so, grimacing at the vaguely dusty feel of the sheet underneath him. Trying to appear blase, he crossed his ankles, stretching out and putting his hands behind his head. He dropped her a lewd wink, inviting her to climb on.

She walked over, looking down at him, eyes sweeping up his body.

“Nice,” she commented, and his chest puffed up briefly before he realised she was talking about his cage.

Working swiftly, she grabbed his hand, pulling it out from under his head and extending it toward a cuff.

He was too shocked to resist as she fastened it round his wrist, pulling it tight.

“Is this really necessary?” he demanded as she repeated the process on the other side, leaning over him.

“Yes,” she said, her breast brushing across his face.

His cock twitched at the sudden contact, and he instinctively opened his mouth to snatch a bite, but she'd already moved out of reach.

To his horror, she was cuffing his ankles too, spreading his legs wide, leaving him exposed, helpless and vulnerable.

Lesser men might have panicked then, but Jeremy was made of sterner stuff. He'd never been into being tied up - bondage was for his conquests, an extra humiliation for impertinent bitches, letting them know he was in control. He liked to make them call him “Daddy” when he had one at his mercy, just to remind them who was in charge.

If Ophelia thought she could break him like this, she was barking up the wrong tree.

She stepped back, regarding her work with satisfaction. Seeming pleased, she nodded, and unzipped her coverall.

Jeremy groaned inwardly. Of all the fucking things she could be wearing…

 

Jeremy had always had a thing for cheerleaders.

It had started when he was a kid, attending a football game with his dad.

His dad had been a big shot too, and they were sat right at the front, right behind where the cheerleaders stood before the game began. They'd done a short routine before the main one, jumping and frisking around, their little skirts flipping up above their tight asses.

The girl in front of Jeremy had been particularly voluptuous, and he’d watched her dancing skirt with fascination. Her standard issue panties were too small, stretched over her buttocks with barely any fabric to spare, her cheeks bulging underneath in succulent crescents. It was then that Jeremy had gotten his first ever hard-on, stiff little dick poking out the front of his short pants.

Confused, he'd shown his father, and his old man had responded with bellowing laughter, clapping him on the shoulder with masculine pride, bonding them with his achievement. From then on, Jeremy had associated cheerleaders with that golden moment, of winning his father's approval, of taking his first steps to being A Man.

His obsession had continued throughout his school days. He took to hiding under the bleachers during cheer practice, purchasing a small spy camera to take upskirt shots of the unsuspecting girls as they sat on the benches.

Later, he befriended a boy whose older sister was a cheerleader, and on visits to his house would excuse himself to go to the bathroom but take a detour to the laundry room, availing himself of baskets of dirty laundry belonging to Tiffany. His first masturbatory sessions had been in that tiny room smelling of detergent, one pair of Tiffany’s used panties over his face like a mask, another pair wrapped around his cock as he jerked off with them.

He’d eventually lost his virginity to a cheerleader when he was 14 in the girls’ locker room. She'd been older than him, but sufficiently impressed by his credentials, and allowed him to fuck her on one of the benches, top pulled up over her jiggling tits, panties hanging from one ankle as he banged her.

It was a fetish, he supposed, but an acceptable one, and his desire for cheerleaders had never left him.

 

“For an executive in charge of a high security mental hospital, your password protection is woeful,” said Ophelia. “And you do love to browse porn at work, don't you? I did some research, you see, and I discovered that you have quite the passion for cheerleaders….”

It was a red and white uniform with a short, pleated skirt that barely reached her thighs and a cropped top stretched tightly over her breasts. Her hair, normally in a tidy French braid, was caught up in a high ponytail that swished and bobbed perkily with every movement of her head.

She turned to put her coverall aside, bending slightly from the waist, and he glimpsed a high, rounded ass peeking cheekily from under the hem, barely encased in a pair of plain white cotton panties.

“I couldn't get any pompoms at such short notice, I'm afraid, but I don't suppose they're necessary.”

She extracted the key from her cleavage, unclipping the chain from round her neck.

“Right, let's get this little guy out, shall we?” she said, undoing the padlock.

The second she released the cage and slid his balls free, Jeremy reacted. The utter bliss at being loose at last made his cock unfurl, straightening and filling out immediately. Ophelia watched the process with mild shock.

“It's like watching a balloon inflate!” she remarked. “And you've only been in it 8 hours!”

“Hey, I can't help it if I'm highly sexed,” said Jeremy, filled with a curious mixture of pride and defensiveness.

He wasn't sure if his response would help or hinder him ultimately, but it was a natural reaction to being cooped up that he was unable to control - like stretching after being on an airplane for a long time.

Settling back into the grimey bed, he tensed his jaw and prepared himself.

 

Ophelia set the timer, showing him the bright red numbers to confirm that it was set for 30 minutes. She placed it on the table, angled towards him so he'd be able to see the countdown, and unscrewed the tub of lube, plunging four fingers in it to scoop up a sizeable gob that she proceeded to smear all over her hands.

Once she was happy with with the coating, she smiled at him brightly.

“Shall we begin?” she asked, and without waiting for his reply hit the start button with her elbow.

 

The first couple of minutes were a shock.

His forced abstinence that day and the sudden freedom, combined with the touch of her hands, made him flinch as she methodically covered the length of his shaft.

She worked steadily, thoroughly, starting at the base and working her way up, using her fingers and thumbs to daub every square inch of his now-rigid cock with the greasy substance, rubbing it in, encircling the helmet, dabbing and massaging.

Jeremy took control of himself, clenching his teeth and concentrating on his breathing.

It got better as he calmed himself down, staring up at the ceiling, mapping the cracks and water stains, trying to make pictures from the chaos. That one looked like a camel; that one like a truck. That one looked like a pussy, its opening wet and dripping....

He closed his eyes and started again.

 

5 minutes in. It seemed longer.

She had a few tricks up her sleeve, true, but she was silent as she tended to him, which was a mistake on her part, although she couldn't have known:

Jeremy liked his lays vocal, whether they were engaging in dirty talk, moaning in ecstasy, or weeping and sobbing and pleading.

Her silence made it easier.

He looked at the clock, watching the numbers count down, doing the math, feeling smug.

 

7 minutes. 7 long, agonising minutes, 23 to go.

She'd varied her technique, gauging his response and performing accordingly.

He’d tried to suppress his movements, tensing his body, but little telltale leaps and flutters in the muscles of his thighs and his belly gave him away, reporting his arousal to her despite himself.

 

10 minutes in and he settled down. He had this.

He wouldn't let himself think about what he'd do to her once he'd won, as that would be counterproductive, but his mind was still busy, reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, dredging up long forgotten football scores, analysing the composition of the bedsheets under him.

 

12 minutes. The tide had turned in her favour.

He'd been trying to remember words to The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe when she'd started to talk, telling him what she was doing to him because his eyes were closed.

She was horny too, apparently. Handling his cock had turned her on, she said, and it had drenched her panties. She described the state of them in detail.

 

15 minutes. 15 lousy fucking minutes. Who knew 15 minutes could be so long?

She was still speaking, breathy little whispers, incomparable filth streaming from her pouty little lips. Everything he'd ever fantasized, the dirtiest acts he'd ever committed -  she seemed to know of them, and they poured from her mouth in a torrent of depravity, inflaming him, making his balls tight and his cock throb.

 

18 minutes.

He hated her. He fucking hated her. He told her in no uncertain terms and she laughed, egging him on, encouraging him to get it all out of his system. He told what he intended to do to her, twisting in her clever grasp, unable to escape what she was doing to him, calling her every derogatory term he knew - and he knew a lot.

He sobbed and he cursed and he threatened her with violence until she paused in her task - blessed reprieve for a moment - took off her panties and crammed them into his mouth, shutting him up.

 

21 minutes. He'd tried without success to spit out the panty gag.

She hadn't been lying when she'd said they were soaking, and the taste of her cunt juice on the wad of cotton filled his head, permeating every cell.

He chewed on them, sucked on them, swallowed her taste, wept until his tears trickled into the cups of his ears.

 

22 minutes. He loved her. He wanted to marry her, live in a castle, clean her shoes with his tongue and let her use him as her personal toilet, abase himself before her every minute of the day.

 

23 minutes.

Jeremy was back. Stupid bitch. Thinking she could best him. His cock was a piece of stone, an unfeeling mineral, with no desires and no sensation. A dead thing, a corpse.

 

25 minutes.

He could do this. He could do this.

5 minutes left and he had won already, he could tell.

He started to feel smug, even though his balls were aching and his entire body thrummed and vibrated like a bowstring, his ass muscles clenched so tight that if he'd put a lump of coal between them it would turn into a diamond in seconds.

 

27 minutes. The home stretch.

He panted and groaned, snorting snot through his nose.

She smiled at him, taking one hand off for a second to flip up her top, exposing the perfect wobbling mounds of her tits with their pink nipples, bending over to let him see the tuck of her ass, the wrinkled star of her asshole, the creamy slit of her cunt.

 

28 minutes. Nearly there.

She put one greasy finger in his asshole, finding his prostate and teasing it mercilessly, grinding and massaging and prodding until he thought he'd go insane.

 

28.5.

He looked her in the eye.

He knew.

She'd been playing with him. All this time - all this agonising time -  she’d been tormenting him, teasing him, knowing that her victory would be more sweet if it was close to the end.

It had been torture, complete and utter torture, and it had been deliberate.

Her hands stepped up their efforts. His back arched from the bed, straining against his bonds, screaming into the sodden panties in his throat.

He came with 20 seconds left on the clock, his balls exploding, his head spinning, a gallon of hot spunk spattering onto his belly.

 

She took the panty gag from his mouth, tweezing a scrap between her fingers and pulling it out bit by bit, like a magic trick.

Jeremy couldn't speak. He was exhausted, spent, and worst of all, he had lost.

He turned his head, gazing blearily at Ophelia as she stepped into the harness, tightening the straps, lubing the giant rubber cock.

“Time to pay your debt, Jer,” she said as she climbed onto the bed. “It will hurt less if you relax.”

“You're a cunt,” he rasped, and she laughed.

“Maybe so. But for now, I'm a cunt with a dick, so suck it up, buttercup.”

Jeremy lay back, helpless and humiliated, as she began to fuck him in the ass.


End file.
